


The Non-Denominational Winter Holiday Party

by perfectlystill



Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - The Office Fusion, F/M, Gossip, Office Party, Office Sex, holiday party
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:14:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21852025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perfectlystill/pseuds/perfectlystill
Summary: Michelle Jones, political beat, courted byThe Bugleaway fromThe Washington Post.The offer was impressive. It had to be, of course, to lure her away from a spot in the White House press room, Capital Hill and her access to insidious lobbyists, insipid senators, and a measly amount of good-faith public servants. Not to mention a myriad of other sources.Or, office gossip, spiked eggnog, office gossip, candy canes, and more office gossip.
Relationships: Michelle Jones/Peter Parker
Comments: 23
Kudos: 166





	The Non-Denominational Winter Holiday Party

**Author's Note:**

> For my truncated version of [positivelyglowing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/positivelyglowing/pseuds/positivelyglowing)'s [12 Day of Promptmas](https://spiderman-homecomeme.tumblr.com/post/189131059410/twelve-days-of-promptmas), using concepts 7. ~~Meeting at~~ a holiday party and 17. Naughty, and dialogue 40. "Why are you under the tree?" "Because I’m a _gift_ ," and 42. "I’m sorry, but you make a terrible Santa."
> 
> Inspired by [arbitrarily](https://archiveofourown.org/users/arbitrarily/pseuds/arbitrarily)'s [and now, darlene love sings the christmas blues](https://archiveofourown.org/works/613901). Yes, I know there's an official way to link to her fic; no, I'm not going to embarrass myself by making the comparison Official.

**5:27 PM.**

Michelle nabs Peter’s second candy cane. 

“Hey,” he whines. 

She smirks, sucking and spinning toward Liz. 

“MJ.” Liz smiles, fiddling with her broach; a gift from Betty. “Having fun?”

“Not really.”

Liz frowns. “I did my best.”

“It’s not your fault everyone here is tone deaf.” 

Cindy and Abe duet _Baby, It’s Cold Outside_. There’s choreography, props, and asides spoken into the microphone like footnotes¹. 

¹All by Cindy, educating her coworkers on the history of the song, cultural expectations in the 1940s and 50s, and the positives and pratfalls of nostalgia. 

“You’re profiling Norman Osborn in January?” Michelle asks. 

“Our first meeting is set for the fifth. Why?”

“Could you ask him about the congressional hearing where he argued against increased environmental regulations for SHIELD and other superhero-friendly operations?”

“Sure, but wouldn’t you want to ask him yourself?”

“He won’t respond to my calls or emails,” Michelle says.

Liz tilts her head, amused. 

“I can get you a set of questions by the first.”

“Deal.”

Michelle sucks on the candy cane again, pushing open the conference room door. She stops by her desk, rustling through a file cabinet. She finds a folder, flips through it and removes a sheet. She places the folder on top of her _IN_ box. It bursts with newspaper clippings. 

A post-it note on a manila envelope. She outlines it with her finger. Upward curve of her mouth. 

She drops the half-eaten candy cane into a trash bin. 

**12:13 PM.**

Flash warms his lunch in the kitchen’s microwave. He leaves it in the tupperware his wife packed it in. 

Two minutes later, the office smells like kak’ik and burning plastic. 

**1:38 PM.**

“Well _I_ heard that he dumped her. She was like, totally cold, you know? She _always_ works late.”

Cindy scrunches her nose, leaning over the top of her cubicle. “She is usually here when I leave? I think.”

“Exactly!” 

“But I heard that she dumped him. He was always going out with the boys, and she thought she was better than him because he covers sports.”

Betty hums. 

**CUT TO BETTY:**

“Oh, that?” She giggles, splaying her hand across her chest, tapping her pearl necklace. “That’s nothing. Just a little office gossip. Nothing serious. It’s like warming up my investigative muscles, you know?”

She sighs, looking off camera. 

Michelle drops a stack of papers onto Peter’s desk. 

“I try to be unbiased,” Betty continues. “But it’s hard. I’ve been working with most of our staff for over five years. I do have opinions.”

_Like what?_

“Oh, no. I’m an award winning journalist. I follow the leads and present the facts.”

She blinks. 

“Harmless speculation. It doesn’t reflect who I am as a person or reporter. I graduated summa cum laude from Yale. I won the Free Press Award for a piece I did on the government’s resource allocation after the blip. I can get you a copy of my resume.” She smiles, sweet as a gumdrop. “If you think that would be helpful?”

Michelle Jones, political beat, courted by _The Daily Bugle_ away from _The Washington Post._

The offer was impressive. It had to be, of course, to lure her away from a spot in the White House press room, Capital Hill and her access to insidious lobbyists, insipid senators, and a measly amount of good-faith public servants. Not to mention a myriad of other sources. 

_The sources._

Michelle was a hop and skip away from information easier to coax out of interns face-to-face than whoever she gets on the phone. 

The offer was impressive: space to shape her own stories, follow her own leads, a sizable increase in salary, and, of course, the opportunity to save a stagnant relationship. 

That last part only comes down through the office grapevine. 

The sources: snippets of conversations in the break room, one-sided phone calls, and carefully collected observations. 

**CUT TO MICHELLE:**

She stares at the camera.

“No comment.”

**2:07 PM.**

Liz and Cindy struggle to hang an assortment of decorations on the conference room non-denominational winter tree. Paper stockings with stock photos of each member of _The Bugle’s_ staff. Paper snowflakes peppered with blue glitter. Tree topped with a light-up Bugle Building. 

“This is so stupid,” Cindy says. She stands on a wobbly chair, straightening out the Bugle Building serving as the star of Bethlehem. 

“Somebody has to do it.”

“Which is why I’m here. You spent over two hours cutting out everybody’s picture.”

Liz shrugs. “A little to the left.” She steps back and places her hands on her hips. “And I was on hold.”

“Who put you on hold?”

“Pepper Potts.”

“What?” 

“Well, somebody at SI did. She apologized profusely.”

“You’re profiling her, and she kept you on hold?” Cindy laughs and she loses her footing, chair careening sideways.

Liz rushes forward to catch her 

“It’s not that funny.”

“You could open the article saying she kept you on hold for over two hours.”

Liz frowns. “Over three.”

“Jesus.”

“Non-denominational, Cindy.”

Eye roll. “Not-Jesus, then.”

**5:33 PM.**

“Is it warm in here?” 

“Dude, it’s cold. Flash turned on the A/C to counteract body heat.”

Peter scratches at the back of his neck. “Really?”

“Yeah.”

“He’s paranoid because two years ago the heat broke and the holiday party was an unbearable sauna,” Betty says. She grins. “Peter.” Wider. “Edward.”

Ned laughs. “Hey, Betty.”

“Have you tried the eggnog? It’s _delicious_.” 

“Not yet.”

“Oh, you must.” She grabs Ned’s hand, pulls him away. “I promise to give him back!”

“That’s not necessary!” Peter calls. 

He shoves his hands into his front pockets. Abe is inspecting the tree, Liz in tow. Flash and Zach are dancing to Cindy’s musical stylings. 

Good luck getting her off the mic. 

“I’m gonna get some water,” Peter says to nobody in particular. 

**2:59 PM.**

“He’s leaving.”

“No way, dude.”

Abe clucks, raising an eyebrow. “Yeah way, _dude_. He’s trying to get a job with _The Times_.”

“I don’t think that’s right?” Ned stirs the creamer into his coffee. Swirling around and around and around. It splashes onto his fingers. The coffee is lukewarm, doesn’t burn. 

“She broke his heart.”

“I don’t know. I mean, that’s not what I heard.”

“What did you hear?”

Ned clears his throat, sputters, and blinks six times in nine seconds. “Um, nothing. What did-- What did you hear?” 

**CUT TO ABE:**

“I have my suspicions, but I will neither confirm nor deny.”

He smirks.

“Not for free, anyway.”

**CUT TO NED:**

“I’ve never known anything. About anything. Ever. I’m the film critic. I know my last _Star Wars_ review was too nice or, or-- what did Betty say? Lenient. But I think I speak for an entire generation and more when I say: it’s still so cool!”

 _You didn’t hear anything, then?_

“Not about that. Who’s Peter?”

 _Liz Allan said he’s your best friend._

“Oooh, yeah, well. I do know him. I guess. Yeah. But I don’t know anything.” Blink, blink, gulp. “About anything else, I mean. The conversation with Abe. Just shooting the shit. Passing time until the holiday party.” 

Glance away, then back to camera.

“I heard there’s gonna be karaoke?”

Michelle Jones dated Brad Davis, sports, for five going on six years, engaged for four going on five years. 

In January, Michelle moved back to New York to work at _The Bugle_ and cover politics at community, city, and national levels. 

Within the next six months, Michelle Jones was no longer dating or engaged to Brad Davis. 

**CUT TO FLASH:**

“They broke up _on_ Valentine’s Day. The actual day! I swear. Cross my heart and all that shiz. That’s exactly what happened.”

He shakes his head. Loud exhale through his nose. 

“That’s sad, huh? Moved her back to the city, and then he realized she wasn’t even worth all the trouble.”

Flash’s eyes widen.

“Wait. Don’t tell HR I said that. I didn’t mean it in a bad way. I meant it in a _good_ way. I swear. Please, don’t tell Zach.”

**CUT TO CINDY:**

“I think it was March.”

_Why?_

She shrugs. “Michelle stopped wearing her engagement ring.”

**CUT TO BETTY:**

“March 18th.” Smiling, she sits up straight. “It probably wasn’t related to St. Patrick’s Day.”

**3:49 PM.**

“Is the eggnog spiked?”

“Of course not.” Liz rubs at her temples. “We learned the hard way what happens when we serve alcohol at a holiday party.”

The hard way includes Flash stripping to show everyone his elf boxers, Betty clutching a bottle of pinot noir, sitting underneath a table and encouraging every woman who steps over her feet to “get it, girl!” The hard way includes Abe, Ned, Brad and Peter arguing over the best _Grinch_ adaptation until a (pathetic) punch is thrown. The hard way is Liz having one glass of champagne, trying to diffuse the chaos Cindy creates, and then going home to get drunk on her own eggnog while crying over _It’s A Wonderful Life_. 

It’s best to be avoided. 

“Just wait until Flash gets to it,” Abe says. He ladles the eggnog. It drips back into the punch bowl. 

On the other end of the catering table there are urns of hot chocolate and coffee, trays of gingerbread cookies, peppermint bark, cut-out cookies decorated like ice skates, wreaths, and old men with beards. _Not_ Santa. Mugs filled with candy canes ranging from the traditional peppermint to lemon to Oreo. 

“Betty is in charge of making sure nobody spikes the eggnog,” Liz says.

“Betty is going to spend the party flirting around this room before settling on Leeds when she realizes we have no new hires in dire need of her friendship.”

Liz smooths out the white tablecloth. She would have preferred a colored one: blue, pink, black, she doesn't care. Somebody _is_ going to spill cocoa on it. Odds are with Peter or Zach. Flash isn’t too far behind. 

“It’s the thought that counts,” she decides. 

**CUT TO LIZ:**

“Yes, I used to date Peter.” 

She glances toward him. His phone pressed to his ear, head ducked in laughter. His eyes shift right and then down again. 

Liz follows the gaze, a straight line from his desk to Michelle’s. Office phone pressed to her ear, too. 

“How is that relevant?”

Zach from HR showed Michelle around on her first day, and she shook every hand imaginable: the clammy, the weak, and the calloused. 

Peter smiled. He has a genuine, kind face that made her suspicious.

“It’s nice to meet you, Michelle.”

“Thanks.”

His grip had been firm and warm. 

Their cubicles are situated across the way from each other, and she let her eyes drift to the too kind man in charge of picture and video. The man who puts _The Daily Bugle_ in touch with Spider-Man for bi-yearly interviews. The man who gets the high-resolution pictures and videos of the friendly neighborhood hero. Of all the Avengers. 

He laughs into his phone, and her eyes drift.

He stands up too fast, chair squeaking, and her eyes drift. 

He leaves to pick up lunch, asks if she wants to come along, and her eyes drift.

Michelle learns he gets overly excited about full moons and comets, hums _March of the Resistance_ when pushing up against a deadline, and knows his way around candid shots when he accompanies her to interview the mayor, or the representative from New York’s 15th congressional district. 

She learns he’s genuinely kind. 

Her eyes drift to his desk, he gives her a goofy smile, a thumbs up, an air high-five. 

**CUT TO ZACH:**

“Lunch between colleagues while on assignment together is normal.” 

He pulls on the sleeves of his dress shirt.

“She’s been to lunch with Liz, Betty, Ned. Zoha once.”

_Peter?_

“Well, yeah. I mean, she’s asked him to take the pictures and videos for all of her articles.”

Blink.

“MJ’s a perfectionist, and Peter runs the audio-visual department.”

Shrug.

**4:15 PM.**

“Thank you for all your hard work this year. Taking over as editor-in-chief has been an honor and a privilege.”

Someone coughs: “Privilege.”

Flash lifts his chin higher. 

“I know going into the new year, _The Daily Bugle_ will continue to be New York City’s foremost paper.”

“As long as Parker is the only news source nabbing good pictures of Spider-Man!” Brad calls. 

Michelle rolls her eyes. 

“Yes. His efforts have been, uh. Well. Yeah. So. Liz and our party planning committee have given us everything we need for a great afternoon, so, Merry-- No! Good Winter! Try the eggnog in like, ten minutes.”

**4:28 PM.**

Michelle tugs down the coffee urn’s faucet. She half-fills the styrofoam cup. She takes a small sip, licking at her top lip, eyes traversing the room. 

Brad’s huddled in the corner with Liz, lips moving but mouth barely opening. Betty flips some hair over her shoulder. Ned bites the head off a gingerbread man. Flash looks left and right, tips the flask to Michelle before dumping it into the eggnog.

**4:47 PM.**

Michelle pats the ground, hands and knees.

“Why are you under the tree?” Peter asks. 

“Because I’m a _gift_.”

He laughs, twirling a candy cane between his thumb and forefinger. “Right. It’s obvious.”

Michelle huffs, blowing her bangs away from her forehead. She continues her methodical trip around the base of the artificial, non-denominational, winter holiday tree. “I lost my earring.”

“Your mom’s?”

Her voice wobbles: “Yes.”

Peter drops to his knees. He starts on the opposite side, working his way toward her. His palm hits something, and when he lifts it, he finds the red teardrop stud. “I got it.”

“Oh, thank god.” She crawls toward Peter. 

“Peter’s fine.”

“You getting jokes from Flash now?”

He scoffs. 

When Michelle takes the earring, her fingers brush his palm. Linger. 

**CUT TO BRAD:**

“We wanted different things.” He runs a hand through his hair before widening his legs, leaning back. “I don’t really know what she wanted. She didn’t want to marry me, apparently.”

Brad looks at her empty desk, swallows. 

“She changed.”

_How?_

“She works all the time. That sounds ridiculous. She used to live in DC, and I was here. But we had less time for each other when she moved. _She_ had less time for me.”

_What about you?_

“I wanted a family. She wants other things.”

_What?_

“Hell if I know.”

Peter walks by Michelle’s desk, sticking a post-it on top of a manila envelope. Brad clenches his fists. 

If asked about her life, Michelle Jones will offer up nothing but a blank stare, flat mouth, and change of subject nuanced and swift enough that it’s hard to pinpoint her avoidance of the question, any question, until she’s already walked away. 

Anna knows her niece fell out of love with Brad years before the relationship ended. It was an easy, there thing she kept tucked in her pocket while toiling away in DC trying to make a difference. 

Michelle took the job at _The Bugle_ because it’s what Brad wanted. 

He wanted to share an apartment every day and every night and not one weekend a month. He wanted to set a wedding date, and he wanted Michelle to have his kid, and he wanted both of them to cut back; as Dolly would say, 9 to 5, what a way to make a living. 

Not unreasonable requests, really. He was willing to compromise. 

But all of it was terrifying. The ring on her finger heavy, loose in the late winter of New York before spring fully bloomed.

It was a mutual end. Brad angry and heartbroken; Michelle worn out and listless. 

If you ask Michelle, and you manage to get an answer out of her, she will say it was a mutual end.

If you ask Brad-- well. 

Perspective is a funny thing.

**5:03 PM.**

“When I say, ‘Winter,’ you say, ‘Solstice!’”

“Solstice!” 

“I didn’t say winter yet.” Cindy rolls her eyes. 

“You cannot wield the karaoke mic for this,” Flash interrupts. “There’s a sign-up sheet, and I’m next.”

“Nobody wants to hear you butcher Darlene Love.”

“I do!” Betty calls. 

“That’s because you want to butcher Mariah Carey,” Cindy says. 

Betty crosses her arms over her chest, scowling. “For your information, Cindy, I took voice lessons as a youth, and I have it on good authority that I can hit the high note.”

“When you were ten,” Zach counters.

“I’m young at heart, Zach.”

“Winter!” Cindy calls over the mic right before Flash lunges at her, attempting to wedge it away from her tight grip. 

Nobody says: “Solstice.”

**[5:36 PM.]**

Peter opens the door to the copy room. 

It’s a small, outdated space. Cluttered with a small table, three small chairs. 

Michelle leans against the printer, arms crossed. “Zoha’s flirting with Brad.”

“Everybody flirts with Brad.”

“Or Brad flirts with everybody.”

“Damn,” Peter sighs. “He never flirts with me.”

Michelle rolls her eyes. “You’re not missing out on much. Unless you like thumbs trying to wear out the curve of your shoulder.” She stands, reaches out. Demonstrates. Her palm on Peter’s upper arm, thumb moving back and forth. 

“This is kind of nice.”

Huffing a laugh, she hauls him forward, into her. Her back against the edge of the outdated printer, her chest against his. “I’ve been thinking about this all day.”

“This?” He grins. He grabs her hips. His thumbs bunch the fabric of her tucked in dress shirt, plain and white. “Me?”

“You’re annoying.”

Peter’s laugh is a whisper. He presses his mouth to hers. “Now _that_ , Brad has told me.”

Michelle smacks his shoulder before her arms go around him, pulling him closer, kissing him again. 

**5:45 PM.**

“Max Brenner after this?” Flash asks. “It’s on me.”

Zach raises his head from where it’s pillowed on his arms. He’s lying on the floor. “Pretty sure that’s against company policy.”

“They have a sugar cookie martini I've absolutely been dying to try,” Betty says.

“Fondue!”

“How are you guys still hungry?” Abe asks. 

Zoha shrugs. “Only ate an apple for lunch.”

“You don’t have to eat, Abe.” Betty slurps some coffee. “Martinis.” 

Flash fist pumps. “Afterparty!”

**[5:45 PM.]**

Michelle tilts her chin up, groans. Low, quiet, the sound escaping despite herself. 

Peter kisses along her jaw and underneath her chin. Desperate, wet kisses. The kind that might indicate he’s been thinking about this all day. This, her, the feeling of her hands clutching at his shoulders.

He nips at the pulse in her neck, and she whines again, biting her bottom lip. Peter soothes the spot with his tongue, laves at it, sucking more kisses into her skin. 

“Peter,” she groans. Her hands slide down his spine, pressing him closer with every inch. She rucks up his dress shirt, untucking it from his slacks and grinding down against his thigh. “Peter.”

He hums against the thin skin of her throat.

“You’re gonna leave a mark.”

“Sorry.” He kisses her pulse point again.

“We don’t have a lot of time.”

“For what?”

He shivers. Her hands underneath his shirt, splayed against his skin.

“People will start to wonder where we are,” she says. When she kisses him, he tastes like peppermint candy canes and coffee, like the inside of her mouth. 

“We can head back.” He cups her neck, thumbing at the upward pull of her hair, the bun at the back of her head. “I wanted to steal one of those non-Santa hats.”

His mouth is bruised, wet, and his voice has a raspy timbre. Michelle feels her heartbeat between her legs.

She removes her hands from his shirt. Peter smiles at her. 

Her hands go to his belt. 

“MJ,” he exhales. 

“I’m sorry, but you make a terrible Santa.”

“Not-Santa,” her corrects. Michelle has the faux leather free of the buckle. “And how would you even know?”

She palms his cock through his trousers just to hear him hiss, grabbing his hand and bringing it underneath her skirt. She’s wearing these green knit tights that don’t seem like they’d block out the cold, the pattern too open. Betty had called them festive, and Brad said something about _The Grinch_. 

Peter can feel the damp of her underwear. 

Michelle brushes her mouth up his cheek. “Doesn’t Santa grant wishes?”

Peter shivers. “He gives presents.” He presses his fingers more firmly against her. “If you’re good.”

“I’m not saying I’ve been a good girl, Parker.”

He laughs, wet smile against her jaw turning into another soft bite. 

She pops the button of his slacks, reaches into his boxers and strokes him with a loose fist. 

“MJ.” He shutters. “We have to be fast.”

“That’s exactly what I said.” She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling against his lips. 

She licks into him, his mouth hot and sweet, his fingers still pressing small circles against her. 

A vague timeline of events pieced together through half-true information: Michelle moves back to New York, Michelle and Brad mutually non-mutually end things, months later, Peter and Michelle leave the office near midnight, the last two left.

She asks if he wants to get drinks. 

He says: “Yes.”

**CUT TO LIZ:**

“He’s funny. People tend to like him. That’s why he’s such a good photographer; he makes the subject feel at ease. Some people get uncomfortable in front of a camera, but Peter makes them believe he’s going to do right by them.”

A smile, wistful.

“He does. Usually. He captures something authentic. Maybe that’s why Spider-Man likes him.”

**CUT TO NED:**

“Yeah, I mean, he’s funny. I’m funny, too, you know? Our humor is super compatible.”

Bright grin.

“You wanna hear a joke?”

**CUT TO BRAD:**

Shrug. Scowl. 

“He’s never made me laugh.”

**11:12 AM.**

Peter gestures large, frantic circles with his arms.

Michelle slaps a hand over her mouth, laugh slipping through her fingers. 

Flash flushes. “That’s not how it happened.”

**[5:52 PM.]**

Michelle twists her wrist around him, his precum and her spit aiding the pull. Peter drops his head to her shoulder, a warm pant she can feel through her thin button up. 

His hands are on her thighs, bunching up her skirt, a few fingers nudging between the pattern of her tights. 

There’s a rip she doesn’t care about now. 

When Peter’s at Max Brenner with their coworkers, and when Michelle is sitting on the edge of her bed, pulling off her flats, she’ll trace the tear, two loops becoming one, and think about New York. 

In April, she signed a new lease in a city that stopped feeling like home years ago. The constant car horns, the lights outside her window she’s never been able to fully block out, the cold of the past winter suddenly foreign after years in DC. The only family she had left here, her aunt Anna, moved to South Carolina, leaving Michelle with a job at an outdated paper miraculously still in business. 

A job she likes less than the one she traded it for, and nothing else. 

And then there had been Liz, sliding over information on anyone who had stuck so much as a pinky into politics. There had been Betty’s overly friendly smile and chipper voice pulsing in her temples until she got used to the timbre. Cindy’s eye rolls, and Abe’s sarcasm.

There had been Ned asking what she did over the weekend. Sincere nodding and empathetic “Same!” when she told him she slept eight hours each night and ordered take out. 

And then. 

Then there had been Peter. 

Peter tripping over his own two feet, Peter setting confidential Avengers files onto her desk, blinking like he didn’t know what she was talking about whenever she mentioned it, Peter catching her eye, brow raised conspiratorially when Harrington from corporate stopped by to give a lecture on workplace productivity and mental health. 

Peter.

Peter agreeing to drinks. 

Peter asking if he could put his hand on her knee. 

Peter, wide awake, stopping by her apartment at 3 AM on a summery Saturday morning. Peter biting his way into her mouth, cupping her breast in his palm, calloused thumb brushing her hardening nipple, sliding two fingers through the lips of her wet cunt, whispering how hard he was into her ear.

Peter making pancakes and coffee in the morning. Peter asking if she wanted him to leave. 

Michelle saying no. 

New York feeling less hostile and unwanted in his wake. 

**[5:53 PM.]**

“MJ, please.”

“Please what?”

“I don’t know,” Peter laughs, shaking his head against her shoulder, breath sharp when she swipes her thumb across the head of his erection. “Anything. Just.” Deep breath. “More than this.”

“Push my skirt up.”

He complies immediately, hands slipping out from the cat’s cradle of her tights. He bunches the skirt around her hips while she tucks her thumbs into her tights and underwear, pulling both down, just enough.

Michelle’s hands find Peter’s. She kisses him square on the mouth and feels his erection brush against her inner thigh. “Peter.”

There’s an indent around her hip bones where her underwear’s elastic dug into her skin beneath her tights. Peter lets her hold her own skirt, fingers tracing the line. He deepens the kiss, mouth open, tongue and teeth and tawdry, the way fucking in a copy room should be. “Need to be in you,” he groans.

With Peter’s help, Michelle pushes herself on top of the printer. He slides his hands up her inner thighs. She parts them for him, at his pace. When reaches the crease, he pulls her forward. 

Michelle’s hands twist in his hair, tilting his head so she can get at his mouth the way she wants. She bites his bottom lip, groaning when he brushes the tip of his cock against her cunt. She glances at the clock, pulls his hair. “Hurry up.”

He laughs, an amused, sweet sound before wetting himself with her, cock brushing against her clit.

“Fuck, Peter,” she breathes against his jaw, nipping at his skin. 

He slides in, hands underneath her skirt, holding her hips. It’s a relief, the feel of him inside her, warming her up. Michelle tries to wrap her legs around him, inhibited by the tights around her shins. Her left flat falls off, and she makes a pathetic, frustrated noise. 

“You okay?” Peter asks, sliding halfway out. 

“Stupid tights.”

Peter rolls his hips into her, and she toes at him with her shoe-less foot. 

He gets the hint, hand dancing down her thigh, past her knee to pull her tights off before helping with her other shoe, freeing her other foot of the fake wool-like material. 

“Better?” he asks.

“Much.” She locks her ankles around his back. “They were kind of itchy.”

Peter rocks into her, and Michelle grinds back, some kind of syncopated rhythm that makes her heart race, has heat blooming all over her skin, a good pressure building between her legs. He palms her thighs, rucks up one side of her blouse to cup her breast over her bra. Her nipple hardens against the thin fabric. 

“You feel amazing,” he pants, cupping her neck, thumb a subtle pressure against her pulse. 

He likes to feel her heart beating. Told her once. He waits three beats and then pulls her in, attempts a kiss that’s more breath, lips brushing as he moves inside her, an awkward clank of teeth that makes Michelle laugh. 

“Touch me,” she says against his mouth.

Peter finds her clit, rubbing small, tight circles with two fingers, and his hips quicken, whatever kind of rhythm they had now lost. “I’m close,” he tells her.

She clenches around him, and he moans, face buried in her neck. She can feel his inhale. 

“Shit, Em, you feel incredible.”

She swallows, a breath, wet “You too” cracking out of her throat.

He moves the hand around her neck behind her back, shifting her forward again. She’d feel unsteady, at risk of falling off the printer with anyone else, her balance too precarious. She knows Peter has her. 

He fucks into her once, twice, hits a spot inside Michelle that forces her to bite her lip, tempering the almost involuntary moan. Pressure builds with each slide of his cock, each delicate circle of his fingers over her clit. Warmth spreads from somewhere, too outside of herself to pinpoint, the top of her head, her gut, her heart, intensifying until her entire body is tingling and hot, the orgasm capsizing, washing over her, a euphoric relief. 

Peter comes as he’s working Michelle through it, groan muffled against her shoulder, her hand gripping his back, legs pulling him closer. Keeping him inside her. 

“Happy Winter Solstice,” she says, kissing his temple before he pulls out. 

**6:05 PM.**

“He threatens to destroy the rose, but one of the petals falls on the present Belle gave him, reminding him the spell can be broken,” Liz explains. 

Charles sings “Mela Kalikimaka.”

Flash recounts his trip to Hawaii with his wife two summers ago, all bragging. The hula dancers, the fresh fruit, the volcano tour.

“You just have to go some time,” he says. 

Abe nods. “Yeah, man, just give us more vacation days.”

“Do we have to stay until 6:30?” Betty asks. 

“Nah, I don’t think so.” Cindy looks around the room. “Who’s all going out after?”

“You, me, Abe, Flash,” she starts, counting on her fingers. “But nobody can tell corporate unless you want him fired.”

“A real possibility.”

“Right. Ned says Peter’s coming, but I don’t know … where he went.”

Cindy looks out the conference room window, around the snowflake window clings, to see Michelle scurrying by, tights folded over her arm. “Do you think MJ’s coming?”

“She never does.”

“Doesn’t hurt to ask.”

“That’s the holiday spirit!”

Peter twists open the conference room door, running a hand through his hair.

Brad’s Not-Santa cookie snaps in half. 

**CUT TO CINDY:**

“Doesn’t take a genius to figure out where her hickey came from.”

She raises an eyebrow, tongue between her teeth. 

“You figure it out.”

Silent laughter. 

**[6:05 PM.]**

Peter brushes his mouth against Michelle’s cheek, slips her shoes back on and hands over her tights. She pulls up her underwear, pulls down her skirt, and Peter gives her the all clear to run to the employee bathroom. 

**CUT TO PETER:**

“MJ’s great. She’s so funny, and in a really smart way, you know? She makes you work for the joke. And she’s a really, really great reporter. Really great.” He nods, eyes sincere. 

“Her piece about the Accords brought some real clarity and improvements. She actually changed things. Not a lot of us can say that. All I do is take pictures and videos for the website. She’s one of the reasons education has improved throughout the country.”

Peter shakes his head, biting his smile. 

“She’s the best writer and reporter I’ve ever met.” His laugh quiet, awed. “Don’t tell anyone else I said that. Betty would have my head. Paste her resume all over my desk.”

_You two are close?_

“Me and MJ? Yeah.” He smiles instinctively. 

It fades slowly, and he rubs at the back of his neck. 

Clears his throat.

“Wait, what’s this documentary about?”


End file.
